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Ch. 5: The Hill of the Road
Back to Arheled Forest woke up early that Sunday. When he went outside he gasped: from tree and sky a frosty silver mist softened the air, and a soft fierce hoar overlaid everything. The air bit when he breathed. He laughed aloud. The squeaking of bicycle handbrakes from the gate made him start. Ronnie Wendy had come to a stop outside the chain-link fence at the far end of the bridge, wearing a hooded brown coat and brown suit pants; he looked, in fact, so like the first time that Arheled had manifested to him that Forest was startled. A year ago, only a year ago, he would have been afraid of this grim-faced man with the burning eyes; but now he himself had changed, had grown, and he looked back at the boy he had been as if across an abyss. “I’m glad you’re up, Forest.” said Ronnie when Forest came onto the covered bridge. “Get ready for church. I want you to come to Mass with me.” “I’m not Catholic.” Ronnie’s glittering eyes met his. “You went already once before. Why are you afraid to go now?” “It’s not that—it’s—it’s—“ “This is the 1st Sunday of Advent. It is a day of great import for us Catholics, for today the New Mass is implemented. I want you there with me. What affects us affects you all.” “But, it’s just, I feel that if I go there, I’ll sort of incur a duty—I’ll feel I have to…” “To join us.” said Ronnie, reading his thoughts. “And rightly so, for in the last hour you either are with the Church or against Her; for all who have truth are linked with the Church, by cord or thread or even shadow. All incline in the end toward Her, for in Her alone is the fullness of truth, and all truths meet in Her. It is not surprising, Forest, you should feel the call to join us.” “You mean it’s like running away from the Road.” Ronnie, his long face strange inside his hood, smiled. “Yes. You could have fled from Arheled, afraid of the things he was showing to you; refused or tried to refuse the sight burgeoning in you, until anguish and sorrow and doom forced you to accept perforce the duty you denied. But you didn’t, Forest. Nor will you now. Come. You will go with me to Mass.” “You are not asking. You are commanding.” A red light shone for an instant in Ronnie’s eyes. “And I have the right to command.” Forest smiled. “I know. I’ll get dressed.” He came back, looking glum. “I can’t find the key. The gates are locked now.” Red light flamed in Ronnie’s hands. He slammed them on the gates. The padlock popped open. “Oh.” said Forest. “You left a note?” “Yep, said I was out biking around the lake, would be back in time for church.” “Mass is as 8.” said Ronnie. “We should have enough time.” “Oh, that reminds me. I have something for you.” said Forest. He drew out from under his coat the ancient sheath of black and red leather with a metal backing, strange runes stamped into the surface, flowing characters neither Tengwar nor Cirith but Numenorean. The red gems in the hilt glowered like coals. Ronnie’s eyes flashed the same hue. “Barrow-blade.” he breathed. “One of the last blades of Numenor. Where did you get this?” “I have one like it.” said Forest. “This is Trollsbane. I got it from the Halfelven.” Ronnie took the sword gravely. “This is indeed an honorable weapon.” he said. “You can tell me afterwards; we’re running late.” “You look like Arheled.” said Forest. Ronnie gave a sour smile. “So do you, with those old eyes and that terrible thoughtful quiet. So do all of us. He has remade us in his image and likeness.” The ride up the winding lake road was a quiet one, the Sunday morning full of frost and wood smoke. They charged down Lake St and rode along Main until they reached St. Joseph’s. The driveway up the hill to the church’s front steps was already packed with cars. Ronnie chained their bikes to the flagpole closer to the church. Two steel poles stood side by side, bearing far above the US flag and the Vatican flag in yellow and gold. “You notice, Forest, that the flag of the Church is not placed underneath of the national flag, but beside it and apart from it.” said Ronnie. “She stands apart from the kings of the world, although acknowledging them and their authority.” “She?” “The Church is the mystical Bride of Christ, as well as being His Mystical Body. Hence we usually refer to the Church as Her.” They mounted the great granite stairs and entered the vestibule. Ronnie blessed himself with holy water and Forest, after a long hesitation, did so too. Up front they could see the Midwinter family in their usual pew, but Lara was not with them. Nor was Lilac, for she was dead. Forest wondered what she had been like. “Drat, they’ve replaced the Adoremus missals.” Ronnie muttered. The red hymnals had held traditionalist songs and many Latin chants for parts of the Mass and many old hymns he doubted would be in the new versions; those would probably resemble the “Gather” hymnals. A bell rang, and everyone rose. From overhead the cantor’s strong beautiful voice sounded through the speakers. “Please join us in our entrance hymn…” Forest watched with some curiosity as the priest, lectors and acolytes processed out of the sacristy. White cassocks on black, the priest and deacon vested in violet. At Old Baptist the minister usually wore black. Ronnie’s deep voice growled underneath the music, and certainly under the high nasal tones of Mr. Slocum not far off. The long straight hair of Moria showed from a side pew, and there seemed almost to be a light about her. Ronnie’s eyes narrowed. “She hasn’t been around since October.” he muttered. “Who is she?” whispered Forest. “A very enigmatic person.” Ronnie answered. “I have no idea what she is. She baffles me. What do you See about her?” “She shines.” said Forest. “She’s not evil.” “That I know.” agreed Ronnie. “But is she with us?” Father Leo, large, heavy and slow, faced the church as the music ended. Slowly, as if gathering energy between every word, he recited the entrance prayers. Ronnie listened, a strange delighted glee on his sad grim face. The prayers were like and yet utterly different from the ones that he was used to, that he had heard his whole life: there was a formality in their tone and phrasing that somehow made them more apt, more fit for the celebration of the Sacrifice of the Mass. “…the Lord be with you.” Father finished. Ronnie, who was studying the Mass card in his pew, was prepared. Instead of the automatic response, “And also with you”, which he had said aloud since he could speak, he said firmly, '' “And with your spirit,” feeling a thrill as the old words echoed through the church. About half the people forgot and said, “And also with you,” while others caught themselves halfway and said, “And also with—your spirit.” “And with your spirit.” murmered Forest. “I confess,” began the priest, “To almighty God, and you my brothers and sisters, that I have ''greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do; through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault; therefore '' I ask Blessed Mary ever-virgin, all the Angels and Saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.” Ronnie’s eyes were shining. All his life he had spoken the “contemporary”, “new” forms, learning as he grew older the more solemn wording of the Confetior of the Latin Mass; and now the “contemporary” was outdated and left behind, and the old forms were “new” and established, to be heard every Sunday at the most liberal of parishes. Unless some pastor here or there dared to hold out and keep on saying the “old” forms. Ronnie almost laughed. Forty, nay twenty years ago, it had seemed as if the old traditions and solemnities would be drowned in a rising tide of pop music and guitars; and even during the 90s and 2000s he remembered, the old things were islands, a Latin Mass here, a Gregorian Chant Norvus Ordo there with parts in sung Latin, while everywhere else the folk music sang and the pastors beamed and bobbed. Now the ancient things stood triumphant in the sky, banishing the sea before them; the Breaking Breads eddied in lagoons, trying to stay, but the tide was set the other way and the modernists were being swept out with it. This being Advent, there was no chance at singing the revised '' Gloria, so the Kyrie Eleison was followed by the readings. This time, when the priest just finished saying, “The Lord be with you,” Ronnie slipped and said, “And also with—your spirit.” and made a face at himself, smiling. The Nicene Creed surprised Forest: it had not been recited at the weekday Mass he had attended with Arheled, so long ago before he even knew him by that name. And Ronnie devoured the words, his eyes gleaming, for they rang in the church like words of power, like the terrible sound of some divine and rightful incantation: “I (not we) believe in one God…. I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. '' God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, ''consubstantial with the Father, '' through Him all things were made. For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven ''and by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, '' and became man. For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, he '' suffered death '' and was buried, '' and rose again on the third day… '' I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, ''who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified, '' ''who has spoken through the prophets. I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church, I confess '' one baptism for the forgiveness of sins, and '' I look forward to '' the resurrection of the dead, and the life everlasting,'' Amen.” “My sisters…” Father Leo said wearily. There was a pause as if he was gathering effort. “My brothers…the Lord be with you.” “And with your spirit.” said Ronnie, and the Midwinters, and Moria. “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.” '' “It is right and just.” said the congregation, Ronnie with immense relish. “It is truly right and just, our duty and our salvation, always and everywhere to give you thanks, Lord, holy Father, almighty and eternal God, through your beloved Son, Jesus Christ, your Word through whom you made all things, whom you sent as our Saviour and Redeemer, Incarnate by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin. Fulfilling your will and gathering to you a holy people, he stretched out his hands as he endured his Passion, so as to break the bonds of death and manifest the resurrection. And so with the Angels and all the Saints, we declare your glory; may our voices be one with theirs as we acclaim:” The cantor broke into a strange and powerful chant, the unknown words sounding on Forest’s ears like thunder: “''Sanctu-us, Sanctu-us, Sanctus Domini Deus sabaoth, Plenie sunt chaeli in terra, Gloria tua; Hosanna in excelcis—Benedictus, qui venit in nomine Domine; Ho-sa-anna in e-excel-ci-is.” '' “What does that mean?” Forest whispered. Ronnie’s eyes glowed. He replied in a strange chanting murmer, “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of hosts. Heaven and earth resound your glory; hosanna in the highest. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the Highest.” Forest said nothing. His eyes were like saucers. Green flickered and gleamed in their depths. For one perilous instant, as Ronnie had said those words, Forest had had the same exact feeling as he did when he beheld the Tree in his first dreams long ago. So the New Mass proceeded, and Ronnie, homeschooled, son of traditionalists, felt at last vindicated, for the very forms of the regular Mass now were traditionalist; and Forest beside him from the Baptist church, listened in amazement to something beyond any service he had ever heard. Even the words of consecration had changed. “In a similar way, when supper was ended, he took this precious chalice in his holy and venerable hands, and once more giving you thanks, he said the blessing, and gave the chalice to his disciples, saying, ''Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the chalice of my Blood, the Blood of the new and eternal covenant, which will be poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.” Ronnie remembered the evolution of these words. At Vatican II the form had been “for you and for all mankind”, but the feminists, ever touchy, chopped off the “mankind” and left it with “all”, despite the clear words of Scripture, that sinister '' many'' with the implication of damnation which made the modernists squirm in their pews. Then they chanted the Mystery of Faith, in Latin, without organ; only the voices of the people rising in deep thunder, “Mortem tuam, annonciamus Do-o-omine…” Forest thought he had never heard something so—suited for church. Ronnie smiled; he was glad he had not gone to the later Masses. Of late they had begun to incorporate the new words and sing the new forms of the “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the “Amen” and the Profession of Faith; but to his chagrin and the discordance of the ritual, what had they chosen for music but the same hoppy pop tune that the guitar masses always used, warping the new words to it. And words like “Holy Lord God of hosts”, “we profess your resurrection”, did not fit to a light fluttery tune that danced on needlepoints. When the time came to receive the Eucharist, Ronnie left Forest to stay in his pew and went up to receive. Forest noticed he knelt to receive; only the Midwinters, Moria and Mr. Slocum seemed to do likewise. After Mass Ronnie lingered to exchange a few enthusiastic observations on the “new-old Mass” with Mrs. Midwinter, then caught up to Forest and they headed outside. “What was that Mysterium Fidei?” “Mystery of Faith.” said Ronnie. “They always sing it that way here. Where is she? I just saw her…oh good, there she is.” He skittered down the drive and caught up to Moria. “Hello Ronnie. Hello Forest. Did you like the new Mass.” she said. Forest was struck with the odd deliberate poise of her words and the piquant way her voice dropped at the end of a sentence. “Was the umbrella yours?” said Ronnie. Moria’s face with its’ perpetual little smile did not falter. “It was. You used it well.” “Why did it not save her?” The hardness in Ronnie’s voice made Forest glance quickly at him. It was terrifying. His legs vibrated faintly and his eyes were like twin stars in some distant universe where all the skies were red. “It tried.” Moria said smoothly in her regal monotone. “But it was not magic. It was no stronger than her.” “You are not human.” blurted Forest. The smile remained, but the eyes flickered. Moria turned to face him, her young round face unchanged. “I am human.” “You hold yourself.”'' Together. No, he had to speak''. “You grab your voice. You think out every motion. You aren’t natural. Between one word and another you control your voice. You are a mask. You are not.” What you seem. When Moria spoke again her voice was so rich, so glowing, so impossibly full of impossible joy, both staggered as if turned to jelly. Only when her voice fell silent did they shake their heads, blink and ask her what she had said. “That is why I control every word. Every step. I dare not let slip what I am underneath. I was human. I am more.” Before they could recover she was sailing on down the sidewalk, and still they stood rooted until she was out of sight. The December night lay over the land, and it was cold. A keen sharp cold, spicy with frost but not deep. The bare forests lay open to the moon. Cold and powerful she stared, at her full now, filling the forest with a silver brightness. Blue shadows lay cold beside the trees. A silver haze filled the distant depths. Smoke from chimneys glowed white and wan blue, as if wrought of moonsmoke and cotton. Blue-grey lay the fallen leaves, stiff with falling frost. Ronnie Wendy, reading by a simple lamp in a dark house (he preferred dimness; his few candles he was saving for power outages), heard an odd sound from his roof. A scraping and creaking. Frowning he donned his shoes and cloak, buckled on the Trollsbane, and pushed open the door. At the last minute he took from under his bed the sneakers of Arheled and put them on. The grim grey moonday lit the yard, even under the old pines near the other house. For a moment, surveying the roof, he thought there was nothing there, that he had only heard a squirrel. Until the roof began to move. Red light flamed in Ronnie’s eyes. Red fire flamed in the dragon’s eyes as it uncoiled itself from his roof. Sinuous and lithe it dropped to the ground. Other dragons began to emerge from the edge of the trees, and soon they encircled him round in a ring of gleaming eyes, scales reflecting many shades of silver, and grey, and purple beneath the moon. As Ronnie circled from one to another, slowly turning from foe to foe, the dragons all began to dance. Their long bodies shortened until they could stand, and in an eerie silent dance they moved around him, hideously graceful underneath the bitter moon. “What do you want?” the harsh voice of Ronnie echoed. The dragons made no answer, smiling salaciously as they undulated round him. So many at once he had little hope of killing, and he knew it, and they knew it. Then they threw back long snouts and unleashed a blaze of powers, fire of all colors, ice and lightning and light, arching sudden and violent underneath the blue-white moon. Equally sudden their fire was ceased. Every dragon lowered its’ head and stared at Ronnie in the center of their circle; and he saw with dawning horror that the ash of their powers had fallen in lone glittering lines, forming a sign of power with himself at the center: a symbol of fell magic, which would make use of him. Red fire grew in Ronnie’s eyes. The heads of the dragons all tilted to the moon, and they howled a single word, a word distinct yet which seemed to make no sense. Bending down Ronnie slammed his hands upon the earth. Red fire leaped up. To Ronnie’s horror the earth did not answer his call. The fire swayed and danced around him, flickering back and forth along the lines of the spell. He could not use his power here. The symbol was taking it whenever he unleashed it. He drew the sword of the Barrow-downs that long lay broken, and the black metal was overlain with a sheen like the reflection of red light, and the writhing characters of Numenor gleamed like red and golden flame, and from the red jewels in the hilt red rays beamed. The dragons gave a simultaneous intake of breath. Ronnie lunged. At all costs he must get out of that terrible symbol. Fire blasted against him. Fire split upon him. He was wearing the shoes of Arheled, and no fire could bite on him. The dragon he was making for squealed and tried to dodge; but the sword Trollsbane flamed with red fire, and cleft the iron scales like grass, and spilled her blood upon the ground. The Dragons shouted again. And Ronnie froze. Between one step and another power held him. Again they shouted, and this time he understood the word that they were saying. '' “Faaafniiiir!!” '' With a blast of red fire Ronnie broke free. Magic could not long delay one of the Children of the Road. He slammed one hand upon the scales of the dragon he had wounded. Earth-power shattered her body; she collapsed, the earth consumed her. And Ronnie was out of the deadly circle. Earth shook. Earth groaned. As Ronnie fell over he saw the red Road-power stolen from him, tricked out of him, flaring high within the circle, and inside it something rising, something mighty was ascending. Huge cracks snaked out. The houses swayed. Red light flamed from Ronnie’s hands where they touched the earth. The earthquake ceased. He groaned as he lay upon the earth: it was taking all his power to hold the earthquake down. Where were the others? Wasn’t he in danger? Or did he have to call them himself? Red light leaped up from the magic circle. Red light leaped up from Ronnie’s hands. Out of the earth a shape was forming, a shape was building, higher and higher like a flickering tower. Ronnie’s voice, rough and powerful, roared a single word as he sent forth his call: '' “Laaraaaaaa!!!!” The dragon-circle scattered, dragons teleporting to safe distances. Within their circle there now lay a huge form, wreathed in red lightning that flickered slowly along him. '' “Hail, great Uncle, two-blooded monster, born of Frost-giants, who took on our form! Hail son of Unbegotten, dragon-hearted, giant-blooded, slain of Sigurd, now returned! Hail Fafnír, Hriedmar’s son, incarnated by Road-power!” ''all the Dragons cried in chorous. Out of the earth as the earthshaking ceased, Lara rose, wan and grim. She looked around, surprised, at the dragons and at the huge body of Fafnír, around which the lightnings sank. Awful eyes opened and stared into hers. Even as their eyes met, the dragons all disappeared. “How did I get here? And where am I?” said Lara. “I’m afraid I called you.” said Ronnie. She turned around and saw him for the first time. “You ''what?” she said in a frozen voice. “I had need of you. When I need, I may call. If you are led by me, you must answer.” “Oh, I must. How very interesting. And I suppose I don’t even get to answer no. I just have to appear like—like a freakin’ Jinn in a bottle??!” “Did you see what they did?” said Ronnie fiercely. “They took my own power and turned it into magic, trapping me in a magic glyph and calling up the worst dragon save only Cornello himself, while I lay helpless!” “Really. I saw no dragons. You didn’t need me. And even if you did I do not like simply being whistled for, as if I’m your Arheleded slave! You think just because you got put in charge that you can snap your fingers and call us out of the woodwork?!” The scattered clouds were sailing over the moon now, and the yard grew dark and hidden. “There wasn’t time to make a phone call!” “Riiight. Well, here’s a news flash for you. I was tied for leader until Travel caved and betrayed me. That means I don’t take orders from you, and I most certainly do not get pulled over at your bidding!” The face of Ronnie in the light of his own eyes was hard as stone. “Do you reject my authority, Lara Midwinter?” Lara’s eyes glittered like diamonds. “You have no authority over me. No one does. I obey—if I choose to. I will not be commanded. And I will not be called!” “We’ve had all this out before.” Ronnie said grimly. “I seem to recall who the winner was that time.” A dreadful smile, so unlike her normal face it seemed as if an alien was suddenly peering out through it, flashed over her face. “We were under the earth then…but things are different now.” The last ragged tails of cloud withdrew from the moon. A great lake of open sky yawned in the firmament. The yard brightened. Grey grass gleamed with frost. Silver mist sifted through the trees. Strong cold light fell about them. Like a dead grim face the white eye stared in the dark hard sky. Lara lifted her head to the moon. An awful laughter shook her, soundless, unsmiling. Her eyes in the frosty air burned like twin stars. Then she lowered her face and turned her blinding eyes full upon Ronnie Wendy. “''Oh my God.” he muttered. The light that broke out of her was so great that it filled the night for miles around, filled sky and heart and mind. Red against it flared the power of the revealing sight of Ronnie. He staggered. The sheer excess of light was bearing him back. Through the glare pierced his gaze, seeking out the eyes of Lara behind their shield of light. He found them. '' “Lara, Star of the Road!” '' he roared. '' “Look upon my eyes, and gaze into their depths!” Eye met eye. Power met power. Red lightning swirled in the eyes of Ronnie. Lightning staggered. Redness failed. Slowly the white fire of Lara bore him back. Even through the blinding light he could see the alien smile on her face. “Do you begin to see it? Do you begin to know it now?” the voice of Lara rang through the storm of her power. “I am greater than you, Ronnie. I will not dree the Hill of the Road to pull and to call me as if I was his.” Red fire was quenched. Red power extinguished. Ronnie bent beneath the blast of white, one hand lifted, redness flickering. He crashed to one knee. White power smote him, downward falling, pressing him fallen on the earth before her. Lara folded her arms, a small smile on her shining face. Ronnie lifted his head from the ground.'' '' '' “You…are not…Lara.” he rasped. “Oh, yes I am.” Lara snapped. “''No.” said Ronnie, pulling himself slowly to his feet. “You are not. You possess. You are not of the Road.'' '' '' “You are Diana!” '' '' '' '' '' The strange smile on the features of Lara broadened. '' “Diana!”'' the voice of Ronnie roared. “In the name of the Road you will go out of her!” '' The smile slipped and fell. Lara shuddered. A light as fell and blue and white as the Moon herself broke out of her. '' “When the Moon shines, I am master, Hill of the Road.” she said in a terrible voice. Power fought power. Earth leaped and raged at the call of Ronnie. Earth dissolved and was quelled at the white strength coming from Lara. Walls of earth burst around her. Walls of earth were dissolved. Cast in ruin Ronnie fell, blackened and smoking, the Arheled shoes that alone kept him living blistered and breaking, upon the heaved tossed earth where once had been the two blue houses, yard and trees. “Hmm.” said Lara critically, pacing around him. “You’ll live. I could kill you right now…in fact, I probably should…but if you’re in danger, the others will show up, or maybe even the old man himself. And besides—“ “No,” she said in a different voice, sweeter, more girlish: the voice of the old Lara Ronnie had been friends with once. “I don’t like him, but I won’t let you kill him.”'' “Why, Lara,” said the colder,. more womanly voice she had used up to now. Diana’s voice. “I thought you hated him.” “I just wanted to put him in his place, teach him to mind his own business, you know? We’re not killing him.” “This is going to be a little hard for you, sweetheart,” she said in her Diana voice, “but while the Moon shines, I am master, and I call the shots.” “You said you would not possess!” “Lara, Lara, Star of the Road…you let me in.” “I let you help me. I am Lara. I am this body. I say what to do. I am my own mistress, no one else’s!” “You sweet simpleton, you cannot master anyone on your own; if you banish me, you will be subject again to him. See how weak he is. Yet under the earth you could do nothing to him; he is immune to you. Do you think you can gainsay Arheled, who appointed him over you, on your own? Without me, Lara, you are nothing.” “Don’t push it, Moon-girl.” Lara said coldly. “I’ll accept your help, but if you ''ever try defying my will—back to the heavens you go.” The voice of Diana was filled with a secret smile. “Tell yourself so, child, if you wish. I am greater than you. I will submit—for now.” The voices died away. Lara had gone. Frost began again to settle on the hills of upheaved earth. Cold stared the moon through the tattered clouds upon the battered man sprawled on the dirt. Slowly he moved. Blear eyes blinked as he pulled himself to hands and knees, surveying the wreckage of his former home. Mounds and pits of piled soil gleamed dark and silver in the cold light. A few jutting boards and logs burned bare were all that remained of the two detached houses by the Fragale Paving Co. in Burrville. Soil shivered and fell in little showers down the sides of the mounds. Deep within his bruised eyes a red spark gleamed. Soil poured in rivers from the sides of the mounds. Slowly, slowly, creaking with power, Ronmond Wendtho rose from the earth. Slowly he hauled his stooping frame to an upright posture; slowly straightened bended shoulders, his head lifted, and his eyes awoke. Soil burst in ascending rivers, rising airborne all around him. Red light burst from his eyes unbleary, and his voice rose so huge and mighty that windows broke in nearby Burrville.'' '' '' “Laaaaraaaaa!!!!” Slowly Lara shimmered into view amid the rising mists of earth. She had been sitting at her desk, doing some schoolwork; she fell over from her seated position and stared up at Ronnie’s burning eyes. '' “How dare you…” ''she hissed, struggling to her feet. Earth rumbled all around her. With an earthen shout as deep as stone, Ronnie grew before her eyes, he grew taller, wreathed with lightning, red fire around him like a tower of flame. He took one step toward her. Earth around him melted instant, melted red, and on seas of lava he strode toward her. Lava spread on every side. White power poured forth desperately from her, till it seemed a tornado of red and white light was mingling and warring in the skies above them. Lava leaped and sprayed about them. Still upon the molten rock both they stood, hands outlifted, misty white power struggling desperately with transparent red light laced with lightning. Step by dreadful step as against a heavy wind Ronnie pressed onward, berserk fury in his burning eyes, his body glowing red as if he too was melting. The white fire wreathing Lara flared and sputtered. An anguished cry shook the tormented girl. Ronnie’s power beat down hers. Ronnie’s hand clamped over her eyes. White went out. White fire extinguished. Suspended from his hand, Lara’s shoes began to melt from the lava as the power of Diana faded. With the strength of the earth Ronnie held her free of the lava with one hand, and lifted the other from off of her eyes. '' “Now will you look upon my eyes once again.” he said. Unwilling Lara lifted her eyes until they looked into Ronnie’s. Like caves of deep fire they burned in his head, burning into hers. She went pale as a corpse. Light drained from her eyes. Limp she collapsed in his grasp. Diana was cast out of her. Lava turned instantly to stone all around them. The rock underneath them glowed suddenly with the same hue that Ronnie gave off, and they sank into the rock, and the crowds of curious villagers and gathering police and firemen were at last able to draw near. But all that met their eyes was a scene of disaster. Ronnie rose out of the earth at the house of Arheled. A fire-glow shone in the old windows and smoke came from the chimney, thick and silver in the cold defeated moonlight. The door opened and a ruddy glow spilled into the darkness of the pines. A tall cloaked figure stood in the doorway. “Come in, Ronmond.” said Arheled. Ronnie wordlessly sat down by the hearth. It was warm but smoky in the little house. “Burrville has fallen.” he said. “Riverton may be lost as well.” “The Star is still there.” said Arheled, pumping the fire with a bellows. “The Star is not pure in my sight.” Arheled sat down and poured out some wine into two glasses. Ronnie sipped his. It had a powerful sweet pungency, like tart nectar; it was better than any wine he had ever tasted. “Do not hate her, Ronmond.” said Arheled. “It was not entirely her. The Moon wanted both your deaths. But Lara resisted her from finishing you off. And you cast her out.” “I hope so.” Ronnie murmered. Slumber was stealing over him. He roused himself. “Why did you confirm my leadership? Lara resents it. I fear that was why she let Diana in.” “Not you.” said Arheled. “Grief. That grief is blunted now. If she does not hear or see you for some time—all of you—she may yet heal. I will walk in her dreams, so that when the Road returns she may be there beside us.” “What must I do, Arheled?” “Return to Burrville.” said Arheled. “The old realty offices on the corner of Burr Mt. Rd are vacant; now apartments, their tenants moved. You shall live there.” “I have only what I wear, Arheled. Not even my bike escaped.” “Burrville must be held.” replied Arheled. He held out a key. “I rescued your bike, your phone, your savings and your clothes; you will find them there. The apartments are in a legal limbo; the bank foreclosed and evicted the tenants, but the landlord sued the bank. A squatter will be safe there until winter is over. By that time you will be skilled enough, I deem, to erect yourself housing.” Ronnie rose and bowed. “Yes, my lord.” Forest was the first one to get the paper this time. It was colder than ever; in the teens, most likely. Winter was finally here. It had been warmish right up to St. Nick’s Day (the 6th; he had looked it up) when all the rain hit, and the lousy half inch of snow, and then it had grown cold. It was interesting and rather pleasant to be part of a family again. The four dark years when he only remembered Dad and not Bell, he looked back on with a sort of suspended disbelief, as if watching a stranger. Who was that ingrown, untalking kid, with the insane dreams and the little paintings? Now Dad was back, married to Mom, and his sister was hopefully asleep so he could read the paper in peace before she pestered him to death over it. It was kind of nice being pestered. Bell never stopped talking, and Forest really enjoyed just sitting there and listening to her, now and then saying something. Bell’s door was closed, so Forest gleefully snuck into the main room and curled up under a blanket near the heater. The green square lettering of the Register Citizen always delighted him: it reminded him of hollies. Dad had finally gotten around to buying a tree from New Baptist ($30) and it stood bare and undecorated by the fireplace waiting for Mom to get around to decorating it. The first thing he saw was the headline: ERUPTION IN BURRVILLE?? “Oh no.” Forest muttered. “Oh no. I don’t want to know.” But he read on anyway, of course. '' “WINSTED—Early last night police and fire crews were alerted by agitated residents of a fantastic display of lights in Burrville, on the Winsted Rd near Burr Mt, right across the street from the firehouse. Crews found themselves unable to approach due to a blinding light that necessitated welding goggles. Donning these, our representative saw a veritable vortex of erupting energy, perhaps due to igniting gas, rising like a white and red tornado to a height of nearly a mile. It could be seen from almost everywhere; reports from as far away as North Massachusetts and southern Connecticut are coming in as this issue goes to press. The phenomena stopped abruptly, only to resume a few minutes later, not as bright and changing swiftly to red. Ground-to-sky lightning was observed, despite the cloud cover being devoid of storm clouds. This second phase ceased as abruptly as the first. '' '' “Crews approaching the scene discovered the source of the phenomena was the Fragale & Sons Paving Co, currently managed by one Roger Harding, who could not be reached for comment. Two adjacent houses, let to tenants, were completely gone, together with the pine trees that had surrounded them; the area resembled a crater ringed with tossed earth, and the central two hundred feet of this apparently had turned into lava and abruptly cooled. Cause and nature of the phenomena are still being investigated, but one fireman, who spoke under condition of anonymity, told our representative “you’d need one hell of a bomb to melt dirt to a puddle like this.” '' '' The buildings are tenanted by a family of four, who were not home at the time of the event, and a bachelor named Ronnie Wendy, who was mistakenly reported missing for nearly a month in October Whether he was home at the time has not been ascertained. Whether this bizarre occurrence has any connection to the previous series of strange events that have plagued Winsted some five miles north, is a matter of dispute. Police Commissoner Cornello Hellar is disposed to think so, but Fire Marshal James Elliot denies it.” '' “Dragons.” said Forest. “Or worse.” The key turned in the lock of the small realty building, shut in by yews, across the intersection from the crater. Ronnie entered. In the dim light of evening he made out piled assorted junk, and moving carefully across he stepped on something that made a familiar boop noise and lit up. His cell phone, turned on. Using the light of the little screen Ronnie surveyed his new home. The old tenants had left a lot of junk, including several torn-open bags of clothes. Ronnie’s own clothes and possessions were piled amid these. He dragged a mattress into an interior closet and, clenching his fist, called up geothermal heat until the inside was warm. There was no heat otherwise. He stretched tents of sheets over the closet door and spread out his sleeping bag and quilts. This would have to do. One of the torn bags caught his eye. He held the cell phone above it. Projecting from the hole was a leg of trousers. He pulled out a pair of brown corduroy pants, and a red-brown yarn hat tumbled to the floor. Beneath them were an ancient oiled coat of brown leather, and a long scarf of white, grey and black plaid that looked silver. The eyes of Ronnie gleamed as he held them up. The winter set in like a seesaw. One week it was in the 50s; three days later iron cold fell upon Winsted, and the week before Christmas it was back up near 50 and raining to boot. The sky was a brilliant blue on Christmas Eve, unmarred by shadow of cloud. Thin blue smoke rose from the ramshackle chimney of the queer little house beneath the mountain, and thin white smoke streamed from the crazily bent stovepipe emerging from the floppy-hat roof of the squat tower. Nuncle Jimmy rested from sawing up the last remains of a huge oak deadfall to sniff the air appreciatively: he was burning oakheart, and it had a delicious sweet meaty smell, like bacon. Perhaps the cold would stay this time. He had welcomed the warmth; it was a good time to wash the backlog of dirty dishes and sweep the floors before Christmas, but it was a bit irritating when your body was in full cold mode. But it was a perfect time to bathe; he had no running water and the fireplace heat never reached the bathroom, so bathing for him consisted of heating up potfuls of water and pouring it over himself. One had to bathe once a week in the winter or the grime would accumulate. “I have a queer feeling in my bones about today.” he said aloud, squatting on a rock. He often talked (and shouted, and laughed) to himself; it was one sign of a healthy mind. His hollow brown face was filled with thought. “Everything’s quiet. Land and air and stone is quiet. Even that marvelous blue sky is quiet.” He unfolded himself from the rock with a heaving sigh and pulled the log into position. As the antique bucksaw ate slowly into the dense pinkish wood beneath its’ weathered brown surface, he was still pondering. Not ominous, he decided. Waiting, more like. As if something both good and doomed was approaching. “Could just be Christmas.” he said aloud. “They say Our Lord was born at midnight, after all.” He was still thinking about it as a serene but cold evening settled upon the North. The temperature was falling with incredible rapidity. When night had come he got ready to head down to the Methodists’ for carols; though he was fiercest of Catholics, he was good friends with many of the Methodists, and carols were carols. As he banked the fire and headed over to stoke the stove, his eyes rested for a moment upon the great central beam, where his long sword hung in a handmade denim sheath with a wood backing on two nails. “Sorrow.” he muttered. “Let there be no sorrow tonight, but peace on earth to men of good will—and to those of ill will, destruction.” Darkness lay cold over Winsted as Nuncle Jimmy walked down Boyd Street. A sad blueness lingered in the west. As he passed the privet hedge separating church from bank (an ironic pun, he thought) he bent a searching glance upon the old grey milestone. “I always feel something mystical about a milestone, something no mere road sign can possess.” he mused. “As if at any moment, it might point the way not merely to Hartford, but to places Hartford could never comprehend.” Suddenly he paused and retraced his steps. Something about the letters had caught his eye. He leaned over the finger of grey stone, and his eyes dilated. His breath came hard and quick. The writing was no longer the same. It now read: '' Temple Fell 2 M. The Rd Opens 6 hours. '' Frantically Nuncle Jimmy glanced at the clock on the ambulance tower. It showed a few minutes to seven. He waited, staring at the rock face, tracing the cold graven letters to assure himself of their reality. Seven came. And at once, without the smallest change or shift, as if it had always been there, the graven numeral 6 was now a curving 5. Nuncle Jimmy made the Sign of the Cross as he turned to go inside. '' Lara. '' The girl stirred in her chair. She’d only fallen asleep for a few minutes. Summer was making toddler noises as she stood in her crib, huge blue eyes goggling at everything. Who was calling? '' Lara. '' Wearily she got up and opened the door. Delicious iron cold poured in. Her eyes widened. Before her stood the Man in Brown as she had first seen him. His brown coat had a hood that was cast back. His silver plaid scarf covered his mouth, and keen eyes burned under a red-brown yarn hat. He wore brown corduroy pants. “Arheled?” she said aloud. The man lowered his scarf. Lara gasped. The face was like and unlike Arheled’s, younger, sterner and with darker eyes…and then she realised it was Ronnie Wendy. “The son of Arheled.” he replied. Lara, still and stiff, said nothing. “The Road returns tonight, Lara.” he said. The keen grim eyes stared into hers. “Does the House of Midwinter stand with the Road?” “The Star stands with the Road.” she answered listlessly. She could fight no longer. She was exhausted. “Come then to the 10:00 Mass, and I will take us all to Temple Fell. Will you come?” Again Lara seemed unable to say anything, anything but the words that came into her head; she was drained, wearied of battle, she no longer was able to stand against her terrible kinsman of the Road. “I will come.” Ronnie gave a strange and formal bow. “Then I bid to you a Merry Christmas, Lara Midwinter.” Out of the earth, as if rising on an unseen elevator, Ronmond Wendtho rose upon the height of the bare field of Spencer Hill at the northernmost part of the Nine Hills. Red Light flashed in his eyes. Red light leaped from his lifted hands. He raised his voice in an awful shout, echoing off the mountains around him: '' “Forest!!! Bell!!!” '' He clenched his left hand. “Brooke!!” He clenched his right hand. “Travel!!!” Out of the earth, all around him, the Children of the Road rose at his summons. Earth condensed on them into coats of thick rough cloth; only Travel was bundled up. Bell was the first one to speak. “Ronnie??” “Yes,” his voice cut into and silenced their exclamations, “I am Ronnie. I am the Man in Brown. I am the leader of the Children of the Road. I am your leader by vote and by appointment, by woe and pain and purpose. I have called you all here because it is now Christmas Eve.” “Why didn’t you just use a phone?” said Travel. Upon all their faces, varied as they were, there was a strange and mysterious likeness; something in the set of chin and eye, the slight furrow of brow, the cast of face; a look stern and wise and solemn all at once. They were the sons of Arheled, remade in his image. “Fafnír arises, dragons wielding. Cornello walks, these hills haunting. The only way that we can speak unheard by our new foes is the way that we speak now.” he answered. “Who is…?” Brooke was beginning, but Ronnie was speaking again. “Come to Mass at St. Joseph’s at 10:00, and then we go to Temple Fell. The Road returns tonight. The Milestones are already awake. At midnight we will walk the Road. Come to Mass.” “But, Ronnie,” said Brooke, “we’re not Catholics.” The eyes of Ronnie glittered red. “Do we not share the same Baptism? Are we not Christians? Did I command you to go Catholic?” “We will come.” said Travel. “We will come.” said Forest. He silenced his little sister with a stern look. “In the end, the Catholics are right.” “I will come, also.” said Brooke. Ronnie nodded. “I will see you then.” he said. His eyes flamed red. The hill shook. All five of them sank into the ground and were gone. Back to Arheled